


another year over (and we're still together)

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2006, FIFA World Cup 2010, FIFA World Cup 2014, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or: two times they didn't win the World Cup and one they did<br/>-<br/>For <a href="http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html?thread=385432#t385432">this</a> prompt: bastian schweinsteiger/lukas podolski; another year over / and we're still together / it's not always easy / but i'm here forever (the heart never lies - mcfly)</p>
            </blockquote>





	another year over (and we're still together)

**one**

He’s 21 years old, and yet he feels like he’s nothing more than a little boy.

Bastian Schweinsteiger used to believe that he was ready to any result. That losing or winning he would be able to move on, to keep going, to ignore the lump that formed on his throat.

When they lose 0-2 to Italy at home, he realizes that he could not be wronger.

Maybe it’s because they’re the hosts. Maybe it’s because the goal happens on the 118th minute, no more than three minutes away from penalties. This was supposed to be their World Cup, supposed to be their dream coming true, them holding the Cup. They shouldn’t be leaving with their heads down, their eyes puffy and a pain that knows no boundaries and stretches to his legs and arms and head and heart.

They’re in Dortmund, and the absolute silence of the once so cheery Signal-Iduna makes the air in his lungs feel like tight packed dirt, and his body feel heavy as it falls on the grass. He can feel the bitter, salty taste of tears on his lips, and the weight of the broken expressions on his back.

They dress up in silence, no one daring to say a word, no one wanting to hear a thing. There is no need for those, to try and mend the unmendable or end the churn in their stomach. There’s no point. 

Dortmund has never been so silent, and the ride towards their hotel is excruciatingly long. 

It’s only in their room that Bastian looks at Lukas, with puffy eyes and a ghost of the smile that belonged on his face. He locks the door in silence, and watches from the corner of his eyes as Lukas sits on the edge of the bed, and rests his head on his hands.

“We should pack.” He says, voice hoarse and cracked as he looks at the 20 years old.

A weak--and, if he’s being entirely honest, rather fake-- laughter leaves his lips, and he sighs before replying. “Always in a hurry, Schweini.” 

If it’s the way that he voice sounded or the fact that Lukas did not even look into his face, but either way it feels like a punch in his guts. He takes a deep breath before facing the man, brows furrowed ever so slightly. Bastian presses his lips together before kneeling in front of him.

“I know.” He whispers, because there is nothing else that he could possibly say to make the pain go away. There is nothing that he can do that will make their pain end.

“It’s my fault, you know? If I hadn’t missed that goal things would have been different, the game would have ended differently. If I hadn’t---”

Bastian wants to slap him shut. Wants to make sure that such thoughts never again cross Lukas’ mind, because, if anything, he was wonderful. He gave his all. He was wonderful. He takes the man’s hand, forcing him to look at him, because there is no other way of doing this, no other way of making him understand.

“Shut up.” He opens his mouth to interfere, but Basti shuts him up before. “You didn’t see yourself up there. You were wonderful. You were so good, Poldi, so, so good…” 

He doesn’t touch their foreheads on purpose, doesn’t lower his tone on purpose, doesn’t look into Lukas’ eyes as he repeats how wonderful he was over and over and over again on purpose. It just happens, as most things with them. He doesn’t mean to crash their lips together either, teeth clashing against one another as pulls him close, and closer, until the distance between them is barely nonexistent.

It surprises him when Lukas doesn’t pull back, it surprises him when he drags him up towards the bed, until they are both laying there. 

They undress between soft kisses and whispered compliments, and forget about the pain, at least for the few moments in which they are together. They kiss lazily, and lay there, looking at one another.

“We’re young, aren’t we?” Poldi whispers at one point, head on the crook of Bastian’s neck.

“We are. The next World Cup will be ours.” 

**two**

He’s 25 years old, and he’s on his knees.

He feels his lungs burning, and the lump on his throat keeps him from breaking down.

They beat Argentina 4-0. There was nothing more certain, nothing righter than them on the Finals. It was supposed to be their Cup. Again. Still. Once more. 

It’s not as painful, though. Maybe it’s because they are so far from home. Maybe it’s because he’s shielded from the pain, because he’s been through it, because it’s tattooed on his body, in a way that he does not forget, that he can not forget. Maybe it’s because he’s older, wiser, or whatever it is that they say once you grow up. Maybe. 

The point is: it still hurts. It still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and Spain’s celebrations still echoes in his ears over and over and over again.

This time there are no exchanges between him and Lukas: as soon as they are inside their room, they lean onto one another, lips crashing together as they try to put all their feelings into words. It’s messy, and quick, then slow, then quick once more. 

They end up tangled in the bed, not speaking a word because it might be worst, it might hurt more. Because words may destroy take this away from them, and they are selfish, and greedy, and wishing nothing but to forget about the match that happened no more than 4 hours before.

“We’re still young, aren’t we?” Lukas whispers, when they’re almost dozing off.

It takes Bastian longer to answer. “Yeah, we’re still young.” But the words sound flat and uncertain.

  **three**

He’s 29, and the match against Brazil was a dream.

It was nothing at all like he expected, like anyone expected, but it feels better than anything that he has ever experienced.

Looking at Brazil’s players, however, is like seeing a mirror of themselves 8 years before. Looking at Oscar, who’s no more than 22 years old, who’s playing at home and has such a weight upon his shoulders, is like seeing a mirror of himself. It almost makes him feel bad (if only the happiness was not so overwhelming. Maybe then).

Still, he walks towards him, eyes with something near pity. He hated himself for showing such a thing, but still. He walks towards him, and he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or do, or how he is going to act. So, he pulls him close, and looks at him.

“Don’t forget how this feels” he says, in hopes that the younger would be able to understand his heavy accented english, “don’t ever forget how this feels. Remember this feeling, and carry it with you. Not forgetting is what got us here. Don’t forget it.”

They drink, and celebrate, and wait.

The match against Argentina is hard. The match against Argentina leaves bruises, and bleeds, and, in the end, it’s all worth it. He would not change anything, he would not add, or take, or give. He would repeat it, and repeat it, and repeat it.

Holding the Cup is like a dream coming true. Holding the Cup is better than any dream coming true, better than anything that he could have ever expected, anything that could ever happen. Holding the Cup is everything.

He can feel the salty tears stream down his face, but he doesn’t care, not today.

He hugs his teammates, and he holds Lukas close, like it’s their last day on Earth. This is what they have been working for. This is what they have been waiting for. This is what they waited 12 years to see happening. This is worth all of their tears, all of their injuries, everything.

“We did it, Schweini. You and me. We did it.” Lukas whispers in his ear, and it makes him hold onto him a little tighter.

They kiss in the locker room, not minding, not for a moment, the rest of the squad. It’s not like it’s a secret, it’s not like no one knows.

They kiss again in the bus, and in the beach. They kiss until their mouths go numb, and it’s the sweetest taste that they have ever tasted.

“You were brilliant” Lukas whispers, and kissed him, and smiles the biggest and most beautiful smile Bastian has ever seen. “Weltmeister.”

“Weltmeisters.” He repeats, and nothing in the world has ever felt righter than the sound of those words.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd, therefore any and every possible mistake is mine. Comments & critiques are always appreciated. You can fine me on [Tumblr](http://matshunmels.tumblr.com/) or [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/dornishing)


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